


Bad Day

by gentlesleaze



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlesleaze/pseuds/gentlesleaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" music video. Emma and Killian's uneventful lives in the city change for the better with the help of an unsuspecting subway ad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this as an Office/Underground Subway AU with hints of Lieutenant Duckling.

(Day One)

  
There is a large poster that sits upon the section of wall that faces the precise spot where Emma Swan waits for her train every afternoon. If one were to stand perpendicular to the poster frame’s left edge, they would be perfectly positioned to welcome the first set of opening doors on the second to last car. The indicator is surprising accurate—one discovered through a series of trial-and-errors since she moved into the city all those months ago—and each evening Emma is greeted to a selection of empty seats where she can take her pick during her commute home.  
  
But she’s been standing at this very spot for what feels like an hour (when in actuality it is closer to 15 minutes). Emma, clutching at her handbag with such a force that it digs even more uncomfortably into her shoulder, checks her watch for the sixth time and exhales sharply. Her train is late.  
  
The balls of her feet ache from the pressure of her high heels as she shifts impatiently from side to side. The platform gets more and more populated as the minutes pass, and Emma chances a glance around to see the new strap-hangers that have come to join her. One person in particular stands out to her: a young man, roughly her age, with jet black hair and scruff to match, with deep blue eyes and a tiredness in his posture that likely mirrors her own. She takes note of his reaction to the accumulated crowd: initial confusion that steadily builds into an exhausted frustration at the prospect of dealing with a cramped train and getting to his destination later than he would have liked.  
  
It’s during one of these scans that Emma catches a glimpse at the poster behind her. The ad features a woman—skinny with perfect skin, Photoshopped makeup and tailored clothes—sitting on a bench holding a cup of coffee. A single word rests on the side of the model’s head, stark against the pale white background just begging to be graffitied: _shine_. Emma snickers, turning back around just in time for the wind from the oncoming train to gust directly into her face, tendrils of blonde hair floating around and landing haphazardly back into place.  
  
The train is packed. As she squeezes herself between a surly gentleman who manages to sweat through all three layers of his business suit, and a babbling teenager whose conversation over the phone consists mostly of abbreviated words and excited squeals, Emma looks out through the door window and sees the poster model staring back at her, her neutral expression apt for Emma’s projections. The woman is mocking her, she decides, and she sneers at the ad until the train pulls out of the station.  
  
  
.


	2. Day Two

(Day Two)

Emma wakes with a great reluctance, held captive in her bed by visions of pirate ships and castles and a kingdom by the sea. The faint echoes of her dream gradually increase in their volume and shrillness to reveal themselves as the blaring of her alarm, set at 8:15 AM on the dot.

She throws her arm up over her head, slamming her palm against the surface of her iPad where she estimates the stop button to be. She lingers in bed for a few minutes, as she always does, never quite ready to begin her day. "Come on," she admonishes herself. "Get up."

Emma brushes her teeth in a trance-like manner, more focused on her reflection in the bathroom mirror than on actually getting her teeth clean. The bags under her eyes appear darker today and her hair looks exceptionally flat. Ponytail it is then. She places a few drops of foundation to the back of her hand, takes her brush and lightly dabs it along her chin, working her away up and across her face. She forces a smile when applying the blush to her cheeks—and she tries to make it sincere, but perhaps she'll really feel it tomorrow—then glides her liquid eyeliner along her lids, flicking the line just beyond the rim.

One of the perks of having a limited wardrobe, Emma finds, is that it makes selecting an outfit significantly easier. The limitations of her existence have a tendency of making things simpler. In a life mostly absent of choice (bouncing from one foster home to another, often dependent on the charity and kindness of those around her until she reached adulthood), Emma prefers to reduce the amount of potential complications by refraining from sentimentality.

Her only luxury—or rather, her primary way of displaying some personality with her attire—is her jacket collection. Today she opts out of her typical red leather and elects to wear her grey one, which hangs lower at the front and accentuates the angles of her torso.

She ends up carrying it on her way back home though, the weather too hot for her to withstand the thick material. The heat is compounded underground the deeper she walks into the station. While Emma waits for the train, she glares at the coffee ad from yesterday, still untouched and irritatingly pristine. She wants to tear into it; fantasizes about one day seeing tags or lewd drawings of body parts scribbled along the white space. This gives her an idea.

Emma digs into her purse and pulls out a black marker. The subway platform harbors only a sprinkling of people at this hour (the only trade-off to getting out of work so late) and the lack of prying eyes makes her bold. Tucking her jacket through the straps of her bag, she uncaps the thick sharpie and begins to draw, sweeping motions and broad strokes over the top of the model's head. Her chuckle is victorious with a hint of maleficence when she finishes.

The train arrives, and she looks back at the poster as she enters the car, swiveling into a empty seat and marveling at her work.

 

.

 

Killian Jones awakes with a start. He shifts his head towards his nightstand where his analog clock sits and vibrates from the buzzing of the alarm. It's 8:45 AM, and Killian receives the outset of the week with a heavy sigh and deep resignation.

The sunlight peaks through his drawn curtains and closed blinds. It's going to be a warm day, he judges, and thinks of which one of his pressed shirts would look best with his most breathable pair of pants. He scrubs at his eyes and nose as he gets up and trudges towards the restroom, smacking himself lightly a few times to shake off the last remnants of sleep.

Killian splashes his face with cool water and pauses for a moment to stare at his left hand. He'd dreamt of losing it, memories of an impish creature cleaving it off in one swift movement of his sword. Killian flexes his muscles and makes a fist, recalling the sharp pain he had felt. "It was just a dream," he reassures himself, flicking off the light as he exits the bathroom.

Once dressed, Killian takes his usual position by his kitchen window, his elbow—clad in the rolled up sleeve of her light blue shirt—pressed against the stone windowsill while he drinks his coffee and finishes off the last bits of his breakfast. Looking out of his third-floor apartment, gazing at the passersby below and taking in the city skyline (or whatever he can see of it) above is a treasured part of his day. The view, while nothing spectacular, calms him; grounds him. It is his only indulgence, these few minutes he sets aside before leaving his home and embarking on his journey to work.

As he makes to head out, dusting crumbs off his mouth, Killian watches as a blonde-haired woman walks down the alleyway that leads onto the main street (the same route he will take on his way to the train). He's seen her a multitude of times before. The vision of her in her signature crimson jacket—although today she's feeling less adventurous and dawns a more subdued color—is often the thing that signals to him it's time to take his leave.

Later, on his way back to home, Killian is caught off-guard. He's walked along the platform of this particular station almost every day—strolled past the minimalist coffee advertisement of a woman sitting alone on a park bench with drink in hand—and feels confident he would notice something like this before: looming above the woman's head in a plainly drawn rain cloud. The black outlines, while illustrated in a child-like and abstract style, seem so... aggressive. While the drawing is clever in its own way, there is an element of meanness to it that he can't ignore.

_Bad form._

Killian rummages through his briefcase and grabs hold of the broadest-tipped writing utensil he can find: a red permanent marker he had _borrowed_ from a conference room that morning after a mind-numbing conference call. He takes care not to disrupt the existing artwork but rather tries to draw around it, grinning when he's thought of an appropriate solution. "There we are, lass," he whispers to the stoic model. "All better."

.


	3. Day Three

(Day Three)

  
Emma unwraps her deli sandwich slowly, taming the aluminum foil into submission as her co-workers shuffle into the break room. It's a fairly communal area, her office's substitute for a kitchen-slash-cafeteria. She picks at the pastrami shavings that are on the brink of falling off and takes a long swig from her water bottle. The noise picks up and soon Emma is surrounded by the chattering of her colleagues, all of whom seem oblivious to her presence (except for one lady who asks if the chair to her right is taken, then promptly drags it away towards her group of friends).  
  
It's not her intention to eavesdrop. In all honesty she can't even make out isolated bits of conversation as the mixture of male and female voices converge into one singular cacophony of small talk. But for all it's superficiality and falsehood, Emma longs to be included; to be acknowledged at the very least. There is an acute and distinct loneliness one feels at being excluded from a large group. Emma feels less alone in her office behind closed doors than she ever does during her lunch break.  
  
It's to her sanctuary that she returns after her meal, only to find she's missed about four calls and now has five unread emails awaiting her perusal. _Great._  
  
Instead, Emma grabs a notebook and sits at the edge of her desk, facing the large windows of her space and begins to doodle away. She draws habitual patterns: the rounded edges of buttercup flower petals, the elegant feathered neck of her namesake, the circular form of a honey crisp apple. She looks up when she's just about filled the page with her nonsense and lets out a long-held breath.  
  
There is another office building on the other side of the street from where she works, and in the fading light Emma can make out the contents of each room on the eighth floor. In the office directly across from hers, a young man stands facing outward. His feet are planted firmly and from this distance it appears as if he's jotting down some notes (and he does so with discipline and focus). Emma wonders briefly about the goings on of his day; if it's been a good one so far or a typically bad one like hers. If his girlfriend or boyfriend or whoever is meeting him at some point for drinks or something because surely someone like him isn't single. If he actually likes what he does, or if he's merely floating in the same routine like she is.  
  
Her moment of curiosity passes almost as quickly as it begins, and then she's flipping over her notebook and continuing to scrawl aimlessly.  
  
And as she makes her way toward the subway poster that evening, it's with thoughts and ideas of possible additions to her artwork. Maybe she'll add horns to the model's head or give her a black eye. What she discovers is that a collaboration of sorts has occurred. Underneath her rain cloud now exists an umbrella, made to look as though it was being held by the woman, drawn in red ink and in a technique that closely resembles her own.  
  
Emma smirks and she retrieves her black marker. Two can play this game.

  
.

  
Killian slams the door to his office shut, playing with the confiscated flask in his grasp before chucking it into the trash. His low-tolerance policy for any sort of antics in the workplace has earned him a bit of a reputation, he knows, but his disdain for drunkenness on the job triggers him in such a way that he is compelled to set an example, however unpopular it may make him.  
  
His new position at the firm has taken some adjustment on his part, the leadership role weighing heavily on him more often than not. The abrupt departure of his older brother had made the promotion possible, and while Killian hopes his employees respect him, there is a lingering suspicion that the members of his team don't perceive his new title as honorably earned. He certainly doesn't take pleasure in asserting his authority, and thus resorts to locking himself away in his office whenever such an outburst occurs.  
  
Sketching is his default method of relaxation and so he opens the top drawer of his desk and takes out his worn and weathered moleskin. He stands looking out from his window, stance rigid as he tucks into himself and begins to draw. Killian can't pinpoint exactly why he loves sketching nautical symbols and fantastical sea-related imagery, but it's therapeutic and comforting. His hand moves of its own accord, depicting the steering wheel of large ship, billowing white sails, an enchanted compass with its accompanying chain.  
  
He glances up for a second, penciled hand kneading the sore flesh of his neck, when he spots a women in the office across the street. She's perched on her desk, enraptured by illustrations of her own it would seem. Her golden hair tumbles from her slouched shoulders, her postured drooping and fatigued. Killian recognizes her, the top of her head a repeated sight just as much a part of his daily routine as anything else.  
  
On his way to the train station that night, he imagines what it would be like to talk to her; to approach her and ask her name. Would it be too forward to admit he's seen her before? That he sometimes misses her on the rare occasions when she doesn't ample past his apartment in time for him to catch her? Does she even know he even exists?  
  
His speculations are interrupted by the sight of the large coffee ad, which is now littered with scarlet and slate lines. The mysterious artist has responded to his contribution. On the far left, in the formerly blank space adjacent to the bench, a car is driving along, it's tires disrupting a large puddle that is set to splash the innocent model and surely ruin her dress and hair and beverage. The vehicle in question looks like an old Volkswagen, and although inanimate, it is imbued with a certain personality and charm that Killian finds himself respecting.  
  
Red marker in hand, he begins drawing his answer to the intrusive (and inconsiderate) vessel. He bites as his bottom lip in concentration, never one to stand down from a challenge.  
  
.


	4. Day Four

(Day Four)

  
When Emma leaves work, it is with a secret smile and an extra skip in her step. Not because her morning presentation went off without a hitch, or because there was no line in front of her favorite food cart that afternoon, or because she had managed to sneak out early without notice. Emma's change in demeanor owes to the big poster that resides in her regularly frequented the train station.   
  
Having spied it from across the platform during her earlier commute, she is eager get a closer look at the apparent extension to her masterpiece. Upon finally standing before it, she is taken aback by what she sees: a cartoon man—no, a _pirate_ —sitting next to the woman on the bench, his long and stiffly collared coat stretched out to shield the model from Emma's speeding car onslaught. The gesture is sweet and such a contrast to the negativity she's been spewing for the past few days, but the thing that really gets her (the thing that makes her heart squeeze in her chest and makes her gasp) is the man's expression.  
  
The pirate is a smug creation, all lop-sided grin and cheeky bravado (the person who drew this is skillful, she can admit) as he leans towards the woman sitting beside him. Still, there is a softness to him and a sincerity that Emma hardly thought possible to convey through a series of lines. He holds up his hook—the thing that confirms his identity as the famed swashbuckler—and it's curve resembles one half of a heart.  
  
It's a tentative question, she realizes, and Emma, despite not knowing the man (she presumes) behind the drawings, feels _wanted_. It's strange, she knows, and perhaps more a testament to the profound desolation she feels than an indication of genuine affection, but Emma feels as though she's found a kindred spirit; someone who is undeterred by her dark humor and juvenile tendencies. Someone she can _have fun_ with.   
  
Her next course of action is easy. Emma completes the heart shape with her marker, the line thick and unapologetic. When she looks at the poster now, she no longer sees a vacant figure staring back at her, unrelateable and unrealistic. Emma sees herself, resilient in spite of rain clouds and crashing puddles. She gets it now.  
  
 _Shine._  
  
Exiting the station, Emma lands in the middle of a torrential downpour. Her apartment is only five blocks away but she knows she'll be drenched to the bone the moment she steps onto the curb. She lifts her arm and tries calling for a cab, her other hand clutching her purse over her head in a vain attempt to keep some parts of her dry.   
  
And then, she no longer feels the fat drops of water cascading down. Emma tilts her head back, suddenly protected by a halo of red. A man standing behind her has pulled out his umbrella and is sharing it with her. "Apologies, lass," he says, evidently unsure of how his actions will be interrupted. Emma's face doesn't help his unease, her mouth agape and eyes opened wide. "I thought you might—"  
  
"Thank you," she blurts out as a shy giggle escapes her.   
  
A taxi hails in front of them but Emma waves it off. The man—dark-haired and blue-eyed and somehow familiar—beams down at her, approving of her decision to forgo the ride. "Where to?"  
  
"Home," she replies as they start walking together down the street.    
  
.  
.


End file.
